Sparks
by Psyche0610
Summary: An extended version of Chapter 13 of my first story, the Discovery of Heart. Sian has a date, Sherlock is jealous, and new feelings are awakened.


Hello. I've returned from my fanfiction retirement to publish this story. It's been sitting incomplete in my Word documents for years now. Because of all the recent attention that my stories have been receiving of late (due to that new Sherlock Holmes movie, I can only suppose), I decided to finish it up and publish it.

This story is, more or less, an extended version of Chapter 13 of my first story, the Discovery of Heart. Some parts of it are verbatim. After I finished DOH, I continued to wonder what became of Sian and Sherlock that night. Enjoy.

Sparks

It was early December, and Holmes found himself, still, trapped in the future, and, still, living on the kindness of someone who was essentially a stranger to him, Miss Sian Fairfax.

Holmes sighed. He wondered if he would ever go home. What would it be like, he wondered, to be forever trapped in a time before he should ever even exist? Would he be forced to stay with Sian forever? Or would she grow tired of her charity, and force him out? How would he be able to survive in such a strange, mechanical world?

Holmes shook his head. It was foolish to think such nonsense. Besides, it wasn't as if his disappearance had gone unnoticed; surely Watson was on the case, trying to discover his friend's fate and resolving to bring him home. Holmes couldn't prevent the slight groan that escaped his lips, however. Dr. Watson was a brilliant mind when it came to medicine, but anything else… well, Holmes might have to wait a while longer.

_I need to clear my mind,_ Holmes decided. Thus decided, Holmes went to retrieve Sian's old violin. Some music would certainly clear away foolish, fruitless thoughts.

---

Sian arrived home to a dead bird on the driveway and the sounds of Berlioz drifting from the house. Sian smiled to herself. Well, at least that old violin was finally getting some use. The smile soon turned to a grimace when Sian realized that she'd accidentally stepped on the dead bird.

Kicking the bird aside with the very tip of her shoe, Sian maneuvered out of the car, struggling to heave her oversized purse and heavy tote-bag from the passenger's seat to her shoulder, all while trying to snag her water bottle from the cup holder and lock the car door. Sian's internal monologue, which consisted of grumbling about the bird guts on her shoe and bemoaning the stack of essay tests that she needed to grade, was suddenly interrupted by a shrill cry;

"Mittens! _Mitt-_ens!"

Sian rolled her eyes; it was her neighbor, Mrs. O'Grady, standing on her front porch and calling for her cat. Stupid Mittens, the self-supposed huntress, was on the loose. She was undoubtedly to blame for the dead bird. Sian rolled her eyes again. Stupid Mittens and her stupid, stupid name.

Mrs. O'Grady, as if hearing Sian's silent action, turned and stared at her young neighbor.

"Hi, Mrs. O'Grady!" Sian called politely, with a slight tingling of her fingers. Mrs. O'Grady didn't utter a word, but continued to glare at her.

"Um." Unthinkingly, Sian said the first thing that popped in her head. "Mittens can't be too far. She's left a gift on my driveway." Still, Mrs. O'Grady was silent. "Um, a dead bird. You know. Like a present." Silence. "It's, um, on my driveway. From Mittens. I guess." What was it about that woman that made Sian feel like she was in the third grade again?

Mrs. O'Grady finally spoke. "Well, I'm sure you can find _some_one to take care of it for you," she said with a sniff. That being said, she turned on her heel and marched back in her house.

Weirded out, Sian went inside her house. As soon as he heard the doorknob turn, Holmes stopped playing his music.

"Don't stop on account of me," Sian said, dropping her tote bag by the front door as she slipped out of her shoes.

"I don't usually play for an audience," Holmes said, lowering the instrument.

"You played for me before," Sian pointed out.

"That was an exception."

"You were playing for Moby."

Holmes stared at her. "Please don't tell me that Moby is the name of that Siamese fighting fish you have living in a vase."

"He's a betta fish, and Moby is a fine name for an aquatic creature!" Holmes just awarded Sian with another strange look.

"Gosh, what is it? Stare Strangely at Sian Day?" she grumbled, furiously unwinding her scarf from around her neck.

"Who else gave you a strange look today?" Holmes asked politely. It was always best, Holmes had observed, to feign interest when Sian was in the mood for grousing; the alternative, which was to ignore Sian and thus provoke her fury, was wholly less attractive.

"My neighbor, Mrs. O'Grady, gave me a strange look today. Surly old hag," Sian added for relish.

"Oh?" he said, politely disinterested.

"Yeah. I was climbing out of my car, and she gave me the old hairy eyeball."

"I beg your pardon—the what?"

"You know. The hairy eyeball. Like this." Sian proceeded to imitate her neighbor, screwing her face into such an awful expression that even Holmes had to laugh.

"But I have no idea what I did to offend her!" Sian exclaimed. "What did I do to merit such a face?"

"Mrs. O'Grady—is she an older woman?"

"Yes. She's in her sixties, likes to garden, and has seven cats."

"Well, then it probably has something to do with me," Holmes said. Sian's eyes widened.

"Oh, shoot, you're probably right!" she wailed. Holmes raised a brow at her.

"Only probably?" Sian tactfully ignored him.

"Of all the people, it had to be Mrs. O'Grady who noticed you!"

"Sian, I've been staying with you for over a month. All of your neighbors have noticed me. It just so happens that only Mrs. O'Grady feels the need to award you with dirty glances."

"You don't understand," Sian said. "Mrs. O'Grady is friends with my mom."

"Is she?"

"Yeah, they worked retail together for years, and stayed friends after their store closed. Mrs. O'Grady never really liked me," she added.

"Oh? And what did you do to induce the wrath of Mrs. O'Grady?"

"I broke one of her floral ceramic cats when she invited my mom over for tea and gin rummy." Between Sian's mournful tone and the actual crime itself, it was all Holmes could do not to burst out laughing.

She glared at him. "Shut up! She's totally hated me ever since!"

"I don't think that I'd care very much what a cantankerous old woman with an animal hoarding problem would think of me," Holmes observed.

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't either, if that same cantankerous old woman with an animal hoarding problem didn't make it a hobby to make reports about me to my mother."

"I find that difficult to believe."

"Well, believe it. I don't talk to my mom very often, so Mrs. O'Grady is how she keeps tabs on me."

"I see. And you think that Mrs. O'Grady…"

"Will tell my mom about you?" Sian nodded her head. "Absolutely. We should expect a phone call…" The phone rang. "…any time now. Jeez, how did she do that?"

"Coincidence," Holmes suggested. "That's probably not your mother."

It was her mother. Sian spent the next half-hour on the phone, trying to convince her mother that she wasn't, in her mother's words, "shacking up with foreign men."

"Oh, you're not, are you?" Lisa demanded. "Are you trying to suggest that Dottie is lying to me?"

Sian was momentarily taken aback. Not so much from the accusation, but from the revelation of the sour Mrs. O'Grady's first name. Sian wasn't sure what she had expected her first name to be, but whatever it was, it certainly wasn't "Dottie."

"Sian? Well, what do you have to say to that?"

"Mrs. O'Grady's first name is Dottie? Are you sure that's her name, and not just an adjective that aptly describes her inane behavior, including her calling you to tattle-tale on your twenty-three year old daughter?"

Lisa didn't have anything to say to that. With one final burst of rage, she spit out one final "floozy" before hanging up on her daughter.

"Hmm. Like mother, like daughter, apparently," Sian mused, hanging the phone back in its cradle.

Holmes glanced up at her. "This wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for me." Sian merely shrugged in response. "Maybe it's time for me to leave."

"Don't," Sian said, joining him on the couch. "What does it matter what my mother thinks? I told her that I'd taken in a roommate. If she has a problem with her grown daughter living coed in a platonic relationship, well, then that's just too bad for her. We're just friends."

"Right," Holmes said weakly. He felt a strange emptiness at Sian's words, one that he couldn't begin to explain. "We're just friends."

---

Ever since that day when her mother had called her—Sian had taken to referring to that day as "Dead Bird Monday"—Sian had been acting quite peculiarly. She seemed distracted and was constantly mumbling under her breath. Holmes assumed at first that she was still in an odd humor because of her spat with her mother—why was it that Sian seemed to have a disagreeable relationship with all of her female relations?—but as the week went on, Holmes felt that something else was to blame for her disposition, as well. Inquiring about it did no good, for whenever he did, she'd give him some prickly answer about it being nothing. So Holmes simply stopped inquiring; whenever she was ready to tell him, well, then, he'd get his answer.

He got his answer that Friday night.

Sian returned from school that day in a fouler mood than ever.

"Bad day at school?" Holmes asked needlessly. Sian shrugged a shoulder in return, but said nothing. Well, if that's how she was going to be, Holmes decided as he reached for his book, then he'd beat her at her own game. He could be taciturn and unpleasant, too.

Sian made dinner early that night. Usually when Sian was in the kitchen, Holmes would wander in as well and at least keep her company, as he had come to realize was expected of him. At least he wasn't expected to aid in preparing the meals anymore.

But this Friday night, Holmes defiantly remained in the living room, reading his book. When Sian announced that dinner was ready, he silently made his way to the kitchen. When he noticed the single place setting, he raised a brow at her.

"I am to dine alone tonight?" It was more of a statement than a question. Sian offered him a weak smile. It wasn't her genuine smile; he could tell by the way that only one corner of her mouth rose.

"Yeah. I have plans," she said simply, and, with that, she turned on her heel and made her way to her bedroom.

She remained in her bedroom for exactly thirty-six minutes. Not that Holmes was keeping track, or anything. He merely had an eye for detail. And a clear view of the clock on the mantel.

Just as it was about to make it to thirty-seven minutes, Holmes heard her bedroom door swing open. He hastily returned his gaze to his book. He was reading it. Really. He'd just been on the same page for the past half hour. Nothing extraordinary.

What _was_ extraordinary, Holmes mused as he heard Sian making her way to the living room, was why he was acting so peculiarly about Sian acting so peculiarly. He'd been hyper-aware of all of her actions for the past week or more, and Holmes couldn't fathom why.

Sian's shadow fell across Holmes's book, and so he glanced up at her…

…and wished that he hadn't.

Sian was dressed as Holmes had never seen her before. Usually she wore knee length skirts to school, and pants on the weekends, but he had never seen her in a formal dress before. It was a simple, elegant, off-the-shoulder black dress, which was just short enough that Holmes could see Sian's shapely knees poking out from underneath the hem.

_What?_ Holmes yelled at himself. Shapely knees! Why, he wasn't supposed to be noticing any woman's _anything_, let alone a _shapely_ anything. Holmes averted his eyes down to the floor… and was rewarded with a view of Sian's well-formed ankles, strapped in some rather dangerous looking shoes.

Sian grimaced at Holmes. "Too formal?" she asked, unaware of Holmes's internal crisis.

"Why on earth are you dressed this way?" Holmes asked, trying his hardest to only look into her eyes, and _not_ at her collarbone, throat, or bare shoulders. Holmes was startled to notice that Sian had a rather pleasing pair of eyes, a lovely chocolate brown, framed by smoky eyelashes. God damn it, why was he noticing Sian all of a sudden? It isn't as though he had been completely unaware of the fact that she was a woman prior to this night.

But maybe that _was_ it; maybe he hadn't noticed that she—or any other female, for that matter—was a woman. To him, Sian had always stubbornly been just Sian, or Miss Fairfax, without Holmes even noticing just what that prefix meant.

But now he was noticing. God damn it, what was it about this woman—yes, _woman_—that made him notice for the first time ever?

Maybe he should stare at her forehead. Nothing sensual about a forehead.

Sian crinkled her formerly unattractive forehead. "I'm going out on a date," she said, sounding as if she was announcing that she was on her way to the hangman's noose.

"Oh?" Holmes said, uneasily.

"Yeah. Paul Livingston, this science teacher from school, asked me out. I just suggested pizza and a movie as a first date, but Paul wanted to do it right. You know, dinner, dancing, dessert, drinks, the whole nine yards."

"Oh," Holmes said again. "And do you like this Paul fellow?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Yeah," Sian said. "He's a nice guy. But I hadn't realized like he liked me more than a friend till a week or so ago."

Suddenly, they heard a beeping from the driveway. Sian rolled her eyes.

"That'd be Paul." Sian plucked a small black reticule from the side table. "I'll see you in the morning, Sherlock. In all likelihood, I'll be getting back late tonight, so don't bother to wait up for me." She retrieved her coat from the closet

"Very well," Holmes said unsteadily. "Good-bye, then."

"Tootles," Sian said teasingly, and, after flicking on the porch lights, headed out the door.

---

Holmes brooded the entire time she was gone.

At first, he tried to return to his book, but forensic science couldn't keep his interest; not while visions of Sian were floating in his head. He considered pacing, but that seemed wholly unproductive, and so Holmes declined.

Holmes then went to Sian's personal bookshelf, hoping vainly that he might find some other book that might hold his attention. Most of the books had pink or purple spines, so Holmes had trouble picking something that wasn't utterly feminine. He finally selected a book with a promising dull green spine. He pulled it from the shelf and glanced at the title on the cover. Holmes did a double take.

It was _Pride and Prejudice._

Holmes hastily thrust that one back on the shelf, but that couldn't stop the mental images from that blasted movie from entering his head. Why did Sian find that movie so appealing, anyway? And that Mr. Darcy fellow – why was he so attractive to Sian? Holmes couldn't fathom.

And what about that Paul Livingston? Holmes could feel his blood pressure rising at the very thought of the man. He had never even heard Sian mention the fellow before, and now all of a sudden he was courting her? Why_was_ she even going out with him? For everything positive she had said of him, she certainly didn't seem excited by the prospect of being courted by him.

Suddenly inspired, Holmes dove back at the bookshelf, looking for Sian's yearbook from the previous year. He knew that Sian had mentioned it before… ah-ha! There it was. Holmes furiously flipped through, trying to find this Livingston fellow's picture.

He found it. Livingston had a pleasant face, with a joking, cocky expression on it.

Holmes hated him on the spot.

Holmes flipped to the previous page, not wanting to see anymore of the man. Seemingly leaping from the page at him was another name; "Miss Sian Fairfax." Holmes glanced at the picture. It was normal, average Sian, as she appeared every day.

God, she was lovely.

Even when she wasn't dressed up, she was gorgeous. Wisps of her golden hair framed her pleasant face, her brown eyes were dancing with merriment, and her lovely mouth was smiling, as if she was sharing a private joke with the cameraman.

Holmes snapped the book shut. He couldn't take it anymore. Why was he finding Sian so enrapturing all of a sudden? He hadn't felt this way about _any_ woman before.

Suddenly, a line from that blasted movie whispered through Holmes's mind; "I love you. Most ardently."

Love.

The word hit Holmes like a ton of bricks. _Love?_ Is that what he was feeling? It seemed more impossible, more preposterous to Holmes than even the notion of time travel.

But was it possible? It certainly would explain the tingliness he felt in his palms, or the shivers down his spine, or the clenching of his heart, which ached, albeit not in a bad way, as if it were going to burst.

_Love._

Holmes couldn't surrender, wouldn't surrender. Love was for fools; it made men weak. But why was he feeling so strong?

No! Women were a distraction! They took away from what was really important!

Holmes was admittedly distracted, but he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to regain focus, with or without Sian. And, before his very eyes, the stars were changing, and what he had previously deemed important was shifting places with what he had dismissed as a disruption.

Oh, what to do, what to do?

---

For an interesting teacher, Sian soon learned that Paul Livingston was a boring date.

Oh, he did all the right things. He took her to the nicest Italian restaurant in town, and then dancing, followed by the best chocolate mousse she had ever had, and then some champagne…

So why wasn't Sian enjoying herself?

_I must be sick, or something,_ Sian mused as Paul pulled his car into Sian's driveway. Sian saw that all of the lights were out; Sherlock must be asleep.

"Thanks for everything, Paul," Sian said as she unbuckled her seatbelt. "I—" Well, she didn't want to say "I had a good time;" that would be lying. "It was very nice of you," she amended.

"Let me walk you to the door," Paul whispered.

"Oh, no, I can manage," Sian said, quickly slipping out of the car. As she was rounding the hood to make a dash for the front door, Paul, who had inexplicably already made his out of the car, grabbed her by the wrist. He pulled her close to him; Sian felt as if she were being reeled in, like a fish.

"Paul, I—" Sian began, but Paul silenced her with a kiss.

---

Peeking through the closed blinds from the living room, Holmes could see perfectly what was transpiring out on the driveway. He felt his blood boil at the sight of that man kissing Sian. How dare he grab her like that? She clearly wanted no part of his affections. Holmes felt his one hand, as if by its own accord, clench into a tight fist.

---

Sian finally wrenched her lips away from Paul's.

"That's enough of that," Sian whispered. Paul smiled cockily.

"Okay," he said. "See you Monday?"

"Not if I see you first," Sian muttered under her breath, all-but running to the door. She hated the feel of his headlights on her as she struggled to get her blasted key out of her miniscule bag. When she finally pushed the door open, she didn't turn around to Paul in his car and wave, like she normally might have. Hell, she was just happy to be home.

Sian didn't bother to turn on a light when inside. Why, she'd been living in that house for nearly a year now! She knew where everything was.

Sian suddenly slammed into something remarkably solid. _Who put a wall right in the middle of the hallway?_ she wondered dimly, before she realized that that "wall" was just a chest. A man's chest. Sian felt a scream coming. By the moonlight shining in through the window, she could just make out the man's face. She sighed; it was only Holmes.

"Sherlock," she breathed. "It's just you."

"Yes," he agreed, as if he always loomed around in dark hallways at obscene hours of the night. "It's just me."

"What are you still doing up?" Sian asked. It had to be well past midnight by now.

"I—" Holmes stopped short.

"Yes?"

Suddenly, Holmes clutched her shoulders and, before Sian knew it, his mouth was on top of hers. How many times could that happen to one woman in a single night?

But, whereas Sian had been a little less than lackluster in her response to Paul's kiss, Sian responded instantly to Holmes's. She reached up and twined her arms around his neck, drawing him closer. She felt, rather than heard, Holmes groan in the back of his throat, and he slid one of his hands from her bare shoulder up to the side of her face, cupping her cheek.

They broke apart, but only slightly; they were touching, nose to nose.

"Sherlock," Sian said breathlessly.

"Sian," Holmes returned.

"I… I thought that you…."

"Yes?"

"That you left Watson to the fairer sex," Sian said lamely.

"I do," Holmes agreed.

"Then why…?"

"Because," Holmes said, brushing his hand down her back and stopping at her waist, "never before have I loved a woman."

"Loved?" Sian asked, almost hopefully.

"Yes." A smile tugged at the corner of Holmes's mouth. "I've been thinking about it all night, and I've come to the conclusion that I love you."

His words were less than poetic, and not romantic in the least, but they still made Sian's heart summersault inside her chest. That was a lot for Holmes, Sian knew. He never relied on his heart; only his brain.

"And you, Sian?" Holmes asked softly, almost pleadingly.

"Oh, sorry," she whispered. She had been reveling in the moment. "I—" And that's when she realized it; Sian loved him too. Sian considered it; when exactly did she fall in love with Sherlock Holmes? She couldn't pinpoint a time. Oh, she might as well admit it; Sian had been harboring feelings for the great detective for weeks now.

Sian, who was feeling a greater happiness than she had ever known, did the only thing she could think to do; she laughed.

Holmes gave her a worried look, afraid that she might be laughing at his stumblings into the world of heart. Sian noticed his face, and vehemently shook her head.

"Sherlock," she said, "I just realized something."

"And what might that be?"

"I love you too." Sian drew him down for another kiss. Holmes, delighted that his clumsy advances had not failed, kissed her back, wholeheartedly, holding her tighter in his arms.

---

Sian awoke to a great crick in her neck.

_I must've slept funny last night_, Sian mused, still more asleep than awake. She raised her left hand and absently rubbed her neck. Her bed felt lumpy, and Sian tried rolling over from her stomach to her side.

Sian had already tumbled on the ground when she reached made the awful realization; she wasn't in her bed. Or on any piece of furniture, at that moment. No, right now, she was on the carpet, glancing up at her couch, where Sherlock still laid, fast asleep.

Or at least, he had been fast asleep; the sound of a body hitting the ground woke him like a shot, instantly alert.

It took Holmes approximately five seconds to analyze the situation.

"What happened?" Sian asked. Her mind wasn't nearly as sharp in the morning. "Did we--?"

"No," Holmes said. "We're still dressed." He paused. "I think all we did was—"

"Make out?" Sian suggested. Holmes was unfamiliar with the term, but he nodded anyway, and pulled Sian back on the couch with him. The outlines of his buttons were imprinted on her cheek. She'd been sleeping with her head on his chest the entire night. The thought made him flush.

"You…" Holmes began, but stopped. Sian looked up at his face, expectantly. "You had champagne last night." She looked at him questioningly. "I could taste it on your lips last ni…" He stopped short when he realized what he was saying, and nearly blushed.

Sian blushed as well. "Yes, I did have champagne," she said, unsure of where he was going with that observation.

"I just… I just wanted to… make sure that…" Sherlock chewed his lip, but from nervousness or uncertainty Sian couldn't be sure. "…that last night had, um, well…"

"Yes?"

"…had nothing to do with… the champagne."

"Oh." She shook her head. "No, no. I, uh, meant it. All of it. It had nothing to do with the champagne. What about you? Last night had nothing to do with…" What had Sherlock consumed last night? "…shepherd pie," she said finally. She felt foolish. Sherlock let out a single chuckle.

"No… it had nothing to do with… the shepherd pie. I meant it too."

The pair was silent for a moment.

"So," Sian said at last. "Where do we go from here?"

"I… I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know what to do when sparks fly."

"I don't either," Sian said. "I guess you just let them ignite the fire."


End file.
